Thief's Mark

by Carla Neggers

  A man he had good reason to suspect was a killer, anyway.

  “I did a terrible thing in my youth, Father Bracken. A terrible thing.”

  Those had been the man’s words on Tuesday morning in Finian’s office. He’d identified himself as Reed Warren, but Finian knew that wasn’t his real name. Although never explicitly stated, Finian was convinced Reed Warren’s real name was Davy Driscoll, and he was one of the two men who’d killed Oliver York’s parents and kidnapped him as a boy. Finian had no proof and the man hadn’t confessed to those unspeakable crimes, but it was understood between them those were the facts of the matter.

  It was high tide, and Finian could feel the chill of the sea, past the narrow channel to his left, where the Atlantic and the Heron River met. With the arrival of spring and warm weather, boats of every kind—sailing, motor, yacht, lobster, marine patrol, kayak—sailed through the channel, to and from private and public moorings. He’d never had a passion for boats. His first attempt at a boating holiday had ended in tragedy. Sally and little Kathleen and Mary had boarded ahead of him. He’d had work to finish up at the whiskey distillery he owned with his twin brother, Declan, and had looked forward to meeting them. As they’d sailed up the west Irish coast, a rogue wave had capsized their boat, and they’d drowned. His beloved wife and their two daughters, gone to God in a flash.

  Now he had this new life on the southern Maine coast. FBI agents. Murder and mayhem. International criminals. And romance, he thought. Not for himself, of course. Colin had found a woman in Emma as strong-minded in her own way as he was—and she a man who didn’t run from the complexities of her family and her past. Finian had performed their wedding service almost two weeks ago. He had good reason to expect two of Colin’s three brothers to announce their engagements soon, too.

  Right now, however, Finian had other matters on his mind, namely the killer who’d knocked on his office door two days ago.

  He glanced at his phone in his hand and reread the last text message on the screen. You won’t tell anyone about our talk, will you?

  He’d received the text at 2:00 a.m. but hadn’t read it until seven—noon in Ireland, where, presumably, Emma and Colin were enjoying whatever remained of their honeymoon. Finian didn’t know their exact schedule and hadn’t heard from them since their wedding. Properly so.

  As far as he knew, Reed Warren was still in Heron’s Cove. “I’ll probably be at the inn next to the Sharpe offices for a few days,” he’d told Finian. “I’ll think about what you said.”

  Finian had urged him to surrender himself to authorities and take things from there, one step at a time. He’d offered to go with him to the Rock Point police. “Don’t wait,” he’d said. “We can go now. They’ll know what to do.”

  “Hold on, Father. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  Finian had realized then the man before him—in his late fifties, in failing health if not dying—hadn’t come to the church seeking to confront the grave sins he had committed. He’d come seeking information and an easy way out. His words describing his yearning for the healing of his soul through contrition and amends had been little more than lies and manipulation. Whatever his inner turmoil, it hadn’t brought him to Finian.

  Reed Warren had wanted to know about Oliver York, Emma Sharpe and Colin Donovan.

  “You’re friends with them, aren’t you, Father Bracken?”

  Finian hadn’t answered the question. He’d sent Reed Warren on his way and hadn’t heard from him until the text that morning.

  He glanced at the text he’d sent in reply, after his morning prayers. I haven’t spoken to anyone but you should. Where are you?

  He saw that Reed Warren hadn’t yet responded.

  The sea breeze stiffened. Finian slipped his phone into an inner pocket in his black jacket. Perhaps coming to Heron’s Cove hadn’t been one of his finer ideas but he’d had to do something. He’d been troubled by this man’s visit since Tuesday. With the text, not acting had struck him as an untenable proposition. He half expected his would-be penitent to bolt out of the inn and race to one of the parked cars, but he didn’t.

  He walked across soft grass and stepped onto a deck at the inn that overlooked the river and sea. At one of the sprinkling of tables, an elderly couple sat across from each other, reading separate sections of the newspaper. They glanced up but paid little mind to the Catholic priest entering the inn through a glass door.

  Finian walked down a short hall, past a large aquarium with a range of small fish darting in the clear turquoise water. The inn’s decor was contemporary but the colors were traditional Maine seacoast—turquoise, sea green, crisp white. He had dined at the restaurant a few times, on his own and with his sister when she’d visited in May. Never with his FBI-agent friends, or with anyone from Rock Point.

  He stopped at the reception desk and spoke to a young woman who told him Reed Warren had checked out of the inn on Tuesday around lunchtime. That was after he’d visited Finian in Rock Point. He thanked the receptionist and went back out to the deck. The elderly couple had gone, leaving behind their newspaper, held down by their coffee mugs. He appreciated the wind. Maybe it would help clear his head. Where had Reed Warren been when he’d sent his texts? Had he returned to England?

  Finian could see him rapping his knuckles on his office door two days ago. “Father Bracken? My name’s Reed Warren. You don’t know me. I don’t belong to this parish. I want to make a confession. Please hear me out, Father. I’m Catholic, and I’m dying.”

  Warren had been in clear distress, but he’d also been lying and insincere, as another few minutes of conversation had revealed. Dying? Doubtful. Catholic? No. Seeking absolution—on some level, perhaps, but on his terms, without genuine contrition.

  A sacramental confession was between the penitent and God. The priest was forbidden to hold the details of a confession in his memory—to actively try to remember what had been said. Even a partial confession—one started and stopped for any reason—was privileged.

  But what was his conversation with Reed Warren?

  A man in a gray suit stepped onto the deck. It took a moment but Finian recognized Sam Padgett, one of Emma and Colin’s colleagues in Boston. Recently of Texas, he had short-clipped dark hair, dark eyes, a strong, fit physique and a no-nonsense manner that was evident as he greeted Finian. “Father Bracken. Interesting to see you here.”

  “Special Agent Padgett. What brings you to Maine?”

  “I’d like to talk to you, Father.” He gestured to an empty table. “Have a seat.”

  Finian looked out at the river. Two kayakers were coming through the channel on the incoming tide. They raised their paddles out of the water, riding on a swell. The sun was bright, sparkling on the wind-whipped waves.

  He turned to Padgett. “What’s happened?”

  The FBI agent pulled out a chair and stood aside. Finian got the message and sat. Padgett took a seat across from him, but he didn’t relax. “Tell me about you and Reed Warren, Father.”

  Finian considered the directive. “I can’t,” he said finally.

  Padgett acknowledged the statement with a neutral nod. “Let’s do this another way, then. I’ll tell you about him. He was found dead this morning in England, on the doorstep of Oliver York’s country home. He bled to death due to a cut brachial artery. Police are investigating. They have his phone. I’m here because Reed Warren texted you, Father. Those texts aren’t privileged.”

  “What time did he die?”

  Padgett’s dark eyes settled on Finian. “He was already dead when you sent your second text.”

  “Oliver?”

  “Missing.”

  “I’m deeply sorry to hear this news, Special Agent Padgett.”

  “Reed Warren flew to Boston on Saturday. He stopped at the Sharpe Fine Art Recovery offices here in Heron’s Cov
e on Monday afternoon. He saw Lucas Sharpe. Lucas was on his way to New York and didn’t have much time. Mr. Warren didn’t have an appointment and hadn’t called ahead. He said it was a spur-of-the-moment visit and wanted to know more about their work in art recovery. Lucas gave him over to his assistant, who provided him with basic materials. He left after a few minutes.”

  “Was this an unusual visit?”

  “As Lucas put it, unusual but not completely weird. The Sharpes might have a different definition of weird than the rest of us, but interesting, don’t you think? Why did Reed Warren want to talk to you, Father Bracken?”

  “I can’t talk to you about him, Agent Padgett.”

  “Did he come to you to make a confession?”

  “I can’t discuss confessions.”

  The FBI agent sighed. “Can someone who isn’t a parishioner walk into your office and make a confession?”

  “Under certain circumstances.”

  “If he’s dying?”

  Finian nodded. “That’s one.” He looked out at the kayakers. They were riding the tide onto the riverfront, its beach covered in small, sea-polished stones.

  “I don’t know yet if Reed Warren was dying before his artery was cut,” Padgett said. “Would that make a difference? If he told you he had a terminal disease and he didn’t?”

  “Hypothetically, no, not necessarily.”

  “What are you doing in Heron’s Cove, Father?”

  Padgett merely had to speak with the receptionist to find out. Finian shifted his gaze from the kayakers back to the FBI agent. “I was doing a wellness check on Reed Warren. His text this morning concerned me. He stopped at the church on Tuesday shortly after ten. Two women were there and saw him. Your colleague Colin Donovan’s mother, Rosemary, and Franny Maroney. I don’t know what they overheard but they will remember Mr. Warren, I’ve no doubt. I don’t think he spoke with them.”

  “This man’s real name wasn’t Reed Warren, Father.” Padgett’s look was steady, steely. “It’s Davy Driscoll. Do you know who that is?”

  “Yes, I do,” Finian said.

  Padgett withdrew his phone and showed Finian a photo, a head shot of the man who’d come to his office on Tuesday. “Recognize him?”

  “That’s the man who told me he was Reed Warren.”

  “I want to know everything about his visit with you.”

  Although a priest, a whiskey man and Irish, in the past year Finian had come to have an understanding of FBI agents and their law-enforcement role, their thinking, their training. “I’ve told you what I can.”

  “All of it’s information you know I have or can get without you.” He sat back in his chair, alert, in control. “Your texts and coming here to check on him suggest your conversation with Reed Warren wasn’t strictly a sacramental confession, don’t they, Father? I’m guessing we’re in kind of a gray area.”

  It was a straightforward question but Finian didn’t answer. It didn’t matter if a confession had been partial, insincere or cut short by priest or penitent for any reason. He wasn’t permitted to reveal to the FBI or anyone else what he and any penitent discussed. Privilege also applied outside confession, in his role as a pastoral counselor.

  “All right,” Padgett said. “Let’s move on. Have you heard from Oliver York?”

  Finian shook his head. “No. Did he see this man die?”

  “Davy Driscoll died in Oliver’s arms, Father.”

  Finian had come to know Oliver since they’d met in Boston in November, when they’d both got caught up in a murder investigation. “I visited Oliver in February. I stayed at his home in the Cotswolds. To think...” He didn’t continue. “I’m sorry. This must have been a terrible shock for him. To see one of the men who killed his parents after all these years—do you know if Oliver recognized him?”

  “I don’t know. I would expect so, though, based on his reaction. Did Reed Warren—Davy Driscoll—give you any indication he or anyone else was in danger?” Padgett leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table and folding his hands as he kept his gaze on Finian. “Father Bracken, did this man say he or someone else planned to harm anyone? Did he make any threats? Was he afraid for his life? Did he tell you he’d committed a crime? Did you encourage him to turn himself in? You get the idea. One man is dead. Another man is missing. We need answers.”

  “Those are all valid questions,” Finian said calmly.

  “You thought he was still in Maine. That’s why you’re here.”

  “As a point of information, a priest can warn authorities about imminent danger he’s heard in confession provided he go into specifics. He can’t in any way reveal the source of his information.”

  “Since you didn’t warn anyone, I’ll take that to mean Driscoll didn’t make or reveal any threats to you.”

  “You can draw whatever conclusions you like, Agent Padgett. That’s not up to me.”

  Padgett leaned back in his chair and looked out at the kayakers, out of their boats now and pulling off their life vests. “Wendell Sharpe’s home in Dublin was broken into yesterday. Did you know that, Father?”

  He shook his head. “Is Wendell all right?”

  “As far as I know. When did you speak with him last?”

  “When he was in Heron’s Cove in May. We discussed Emma and Colin’s wedding. He’d expected to stay in Maine through the wedding, but he couldn’t do it. The memories. The changes. Dublin is home for him now.”

  “That wasn’t a privileged conversation, Father?”

  He smiled. “No, it wasn’t or I wouldn’t have mentioned it. He told everyone.”

  “All right.” Padgett pushed back his chair and stood. “You know how to reach me if you decide you can reveal more about your conversation with Davy Driscoll, aka Reed Warren. Or call Colin or Emma. But don’t get involved in this investigation. Understood? You have a bit of a reputation. Go back to Rock Point and have clam chowder and blueberry pie.”

  “Thank you, Special Agent Padgett. Good luck with your investigation.”

  There was a hint of humor in his dark eyes. “I’ll need it. I’m going to talk to Colin’s mother. She has four sons. Not one of them’s going to like it.” He grinned, clearly unintimidated. “Take care, Father.”

  After Padgett left, Finian ambled across the car park, and decided chowder and pie sounded good. It wasn’t too early for whiskey, either. Not, he thought, after a grilling by the FBI.

  9

  Declan’s Cross, Ireland

  Oliver York punched in Finian Bracken’s number on the mobile phone he’d borrowed from the proprietress of the O’Byrne House Hotel in the heart of the south Irish coastal village of Declan’s Cross. The borrowing was without Kitty O’Byrne’s knowledge, but it wasn’t stealing since he would return the phone as soon as he finished his call.

  “Hello, Father Bracken.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the connection. “Oliver. The police are looking for you. Turn yourself in at once. Why are you calling on Kitty’s phone?”

  “I don’t have my phone with me.”

  “You left it behind or discarded it not wanting to risk the police tracking you.”

  “There’s that, yes.”

  “But you are in Declan’s Cross?”

  Oliver looked up at the boutique hotel, framed against ominously churning gray clouds. The long June daylight would work in his favor. He could hear the boisterous laughter of a man, an Irishman, one of the hotel guests gathered in the lounge. The O’Byrne House had changed since Oliver’s first clandestine visit a decade ago. Kitty, the elder of the two nieces of the previous owner, John O’Byrne, had converted the rambling old house into what was now a thriving hotel. She was engaged to a garda detective, but he would likely be in Dublin, where he was based. At any rate, Sean Murphy
was the least of Oliver’s worries at the moment. He knew he’d taken a chance in coming here, but today—the past ten years—had been filled with chances.

  He’d had to leave England. He’d had to get away from the dead man, the blood, the rush of memories and questions.

  He’d had to come here, to Declan’s Cross.

  He couldn’t fully explain, and right now he didn’t have to.

  He ignored Finian’s question. “I saw the texts between you and Reed Warren. That’s not his real name. His real name is Davy Driscoll. He was one of the two men who killed my parents. One of my kidnappers. But I think you know that, and I think you know he died in my arms this morning. Why did he come to you, Finian?”

  “I can’t talk to you about this man, Oliver.”

  It was not an unexpected answer from his Irish-priest friend. “I don’t remember everything about that night. It’s as if some of it’s wrapped in gauze. I remember Davy’s face. He was scared. He carried me to their getaway van. He and Bart Norcross debated killing me and dumping my body in an alley or on the side of the motorway. Davy didn’t do the driving. I was in back with him. Norcross drove.” Oliver paused, no sound at all—not even a breath—coming from the other end of the connection. “I’ve always been certain they killed my parents. Driscoll and Norcross.”

  “You were a traumatized boy but you were able to identify them.”

  “What if I got it wrong?” Oliver said in a half whisper. “Is that why he came to you? Davy? Did he tell you he and Norcross didn’t kill my parents?”

  Finian didn’t answer immediately, as if he was taking great care to consider his response. “Some people draw a sense of power from manipulating others to get what they want,” he said finally. “That’s a general statement. It’s not specific to any particular person.”

  “Why would a man who knew he was dying lie to me?”

  “Why wouldn’t he lie?” Finian asked quietly.